


Rosaries

by PersianPenName



Series: Random GOmens One-Shot Scenes [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Drinking, F/M, Grace Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, This used to be 'disconnected scenes' but I decided to split it up, no betas this is just my brain, sad wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:02:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24267103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersianPenName/pseuds/PersianPenName
Summary: This used to be my 'disconnected scenes' work, that held all of the random bits that wouldn't leave my brain until I wrote them out. I decided to split them up to make them easier to shuffle around into various series, but someone I knew who had kudosed this fic passed away and I can't stand to lose that small marker of their life so I edited it down to just the one chapter.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Random GOmens One-Shot Scenes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1924819
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	Rosaries

Crowley didn't like crucifixes, which he felt was reasonable. He didn't imagine most people would like it if their friend was horribly murdered (and on the order of their estranged parent, no less), and not only did people insist on reminding you about it all the time, but they hung up little images of your murdered friend like they were decorative tchotchkes and not the image of a nice man suffering needlessly.

No, Crowley did not like crucifixes one bit.

But _rosaries_.

Bit of string, couple of beads, nothing too terrible there. Smooth bits of stone, cold against his skin at first, but soon giving a prickle of warning and a flush of heat that set his nerves to screaming.

His usual was a lovely thing, black silk cord strung with polished onyx and carnelian. It hung on a small hook next to his bathroom mirror, and on days when he was feeling particularly lonely he would press his hand against it and let the pain ground him. _This_ was what he was – a demon, rejected by god, disowned and disavowed, Her unconditional love revealed to be really quite conditional now that you mention it. He'd let the pain burrow into his hand, like burning, like a live wire, scorching a series of small, round marks into his flesh that he would cover in ointment and dark gloves, and it would serve as a reminder that he was at heart was something terrible, something unforgiven and unworthy of love.

He didn't use it every day, of course, or even every year. As a general rule he liked himself, liked being flash bastard Anthony J. Crowley among the humans and the ever-imaginative Serpent of Eden in hell, liked thinking up clever tricks like gluing coins to the sidewalks, and changing around the typeset so a run of bibles said _thou shalt commit adultery_ and whispering to a pope that really, what was the harm in repenting _in advance_ of a sin you knew you were likely to commit? Still got repented, didn't it?

It was only sometimes, when he'd be walking alongside the best thing She ever created, and he'd get that _feeling_ in his chest, bright and tight and painful and sparkling and he'd just be filled with so much _yearning_ that he knew it, he knew he was going to do something stupid, something that would ruin this beautiful thing, something that would make this wonderful fussy kind prissy magnificent _bastard_ of an angel decide he'd had enough of Crowley's hanging about and be done with him.

So he'd make an excuse.

And he'd go home.

And he'd remind himself.

The worst one, the _best_ one, for when he absolutely needed to be able to control himself or had come far too close to saying or doing something rash, for when he'd leaned in close enough to share breath, to feel the warmth of the angel's body before pulling away, that one was white. Pure italian marble, shot through with gold, and while it didn't actually enhance the sensation at all it _had_ at one point been blessed by an actual minor Saint (well before he did his Saint-ing, but Crowley figured it still counted).

For this, he'd put on a pair of white leather gloves that the angel thought he'd misplaced ages ago, apply a generous helping of oil, wrap the rosary around his palm, and slowly let it glide up and down his red and aching cock. It would warm, and sting, and burn, and it was so _good_ and oh, he was a terrible, _terrible_ demon to love this so much. Fuck, the pain of it mixed so lovingly with the pleasure, like fucking a bolt of goddamn _lightning_ , and oh, he was going to be red and sore and _aching_ when it was over. It was a race, every time, between how much pain he could take before it outweighed the pleasure, to see if he would come shaking and swearing and writhing in his sheets or if his cries would shift to sobs and whimpers, to see if his cock or his eyes would spill over first.

Then he would clean himself, hissing and wincing, and let his soft and burning cock melt back into a ken-doll expanse of blistered, red skin. He would bandage himself gently, sliding between his soft black sheets, and sleep for a week.

And sometimes, while he slept, he would dream of a different world, one where he could love and be loved in return, one where he was _worthy_ , and the touch of holy things, of holy hands and lips and skin and sweat wouldn’t destroy him, and he would smile.

**Author's Note:**

> This used to be my 'disconnected scenes' work, that held all of the random bits that wouldn't leave my brain until I wrote them out. I decided to split them up to make them easier to shuffle around into various series, but someone I knew who had kudosed this fic passed away and I can't stand to lose that small marker of their life so I edited it down to just the one chapter.


End file.
